


Tumblr Ficlets 2017

by ineswrites



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Ancient Greece AU, Angst, Body Horror, First Kiss, M/M, Pining, Taxidermy, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 01:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13203264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/pseuds/ineswrites
Summary: With every desperate intake of air, he got drunk on Brock’s smell, more intoxicating than fear of approaching death.





	1. Get Him, Tiger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With every desperate intake of air, he got drunk on Brock’s smell, more intoxicating than fear of approaching death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [SplinterCell](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SplinterCell) asked for cuddling out of necessity with a side of UST from [this prompt list](https://quillofchoice.tumblr.com/post/162485580059/cuddling-prompts).

The Winter Soldier was in the middle of ripping Collins apart when a pair of hands grabbed the front of Jack’s tac suit and shoved him into a janitor’s closet. Jack stumbled into mops and brushes. Thankfully, the room was too tiny for them to fall down and cause a ruckus that would catch the Soldier’s attention; they just leaned against the opposite wall and stayed there. Still in fight mode, Jack took a swing, but his fist was blocked by a gloved hand. A warm, firm body pressed him into the wall. Another gloved hand clasped his mouth, and a pair of hazel eyes glared up at him. A sharp smell of bleach the closet reeked of overlapped with a familiar mix of citrus AXE, sweat, blood and gunpowder that made him relax before a smoky voice hissed,

“Calm down, ‘s jus’ me.”

Brock turned his face towards the only source of light, a small window at the top of the door, behind which a distorted top of the Soldier’s head appeared and disappeared as he roamed around the corridor, looking for a new victim. Jack closed his eyes for a second, Collins’ screams still ringing in his ears. He’d still be alive, had Jack conserved ammo better.

Brock was still watching the window, unmoving, apart from his chest rising and falling against Jack’s in shallow intakes of breath. Jack’s heart fluttered much more quickly than just a moment ago, when he was certain he was gonna die a gruesome death. Considering that option was still on the table, it was a terrible moment to decide Brock looked really hot with blood smeared across his sharp cheekbone.

It was getting hot in the poorly ventilated closet, and hard to breathe. The metallic smell of Brock’s bloodied hand that was still covering Jack’s mouth, strong enough for him to taste it on his tongue, wasn’t helping. With every desperate intake of air, he got drunk on Brock’s smell, more intoxicating than fear of approaching death.

Brock let out a shaky breath that tingled Jack’s neck and sent shivers down his spine when the top of the Soldier’s head grew bigger. His lips moved in a silent prayer. His panicked heart beat so strongly Jack could feel it through the layers of their suits. His thigh pressed into Jack’s as he leaned in even further, and Jack felt wetness seeping through the material of his pants. He glanced down and saw blood pouring out of a hole in Brock’s thigh. That explained why the smell of it was so strong.

Brock’s face was pale and sweaty, and Jack realized he was holding onto him mostly for support. Without really thinking about it, he wrapped his arms around Brock’s waist to keep him upright, causing him to outright lie on his chest. Brock shot him a glare, but his focus quickly returned to the Soldier behind the window. His whole face was visible now, and judging by a proximity of it, the Soldier was about to tear the door out of its hinges. Brock squeezed Jack’s hand almost hard enough to crush bones.

They heard a squeak of a different door opening, followed by a hair-raising shriek. The Soldier turned on his heel, hair flying around his head, and rapidly retreated to the soundtrack of more screams and slamming doors.

Brock slumped against Jack as his stiff muscles let go a little, and he let out another shaky breath. Jack’s embrace tightened around him. Brock looked directly into his eyes.

“First floor, room 102B, dart guns,” he whispered.

He slapped Jack’s shoulder when the other didn’t react, too distracted by the way his tongue flicked across his lips. Jack swallowed thickly and nodded.

“And stop huggin’ me, I ain’t your high school sweetheart.”

“Can you stand on your own?” Jack asked, his voice more hoarse than he liked.

“Maybe. Not the point. Go get ‘im, tiger, before he murders us all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to request a fic, drop me an ask on [tumblr](https://quillofchoice.tumblr.com/ask)!


	2. The Collector

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t know an awful lot about Rollins, but his house tells him two things. One, he’s not exactly neat. Two, he likes pretty things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [SplinterCell](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SplinterCell) again asked for “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” from [this](https://quillofchoice.tumblr.com/post/164451760741/super-sappy-lines-prompt-list) prompt list.
> 
>  
> 
> [Translation into Russian available.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12041952)

Team Alpha is a gem of STRIKE, every exceptional member carefully picked by its commander out of the crowd of mediocrity.

When Pierce hands him a file with a name on it and says, “He’s now on your team,” Brock’s fucking pissed.

 

\--

 

The new guy isn’t half bad. This is not a compliment. Brock is still pissed, but he’s not disappointed. It’s hard to be disappointed if you don’t expect much in the first place.

 

\--

 

The new guy is irritating in the way his eyes are always glued to Brock, like there’s nothing else interesting in vicinity he’d rather look at. It’s especially unnerving when he’s holding a sniper rifle.

“See something you like?” Brock snaps.

“I do,” he replies unashamedly, and continues to stare.

Brock’s hands are clammy, and he tightens his hold on a rifle. Not many people manage to overawe him, but Jack Rollins’ strong confidence does.

 

\--

 

Rollins’ house is dusty and cluttered with sculptures. Walls are decorated with reproductions of known paintings like da Vinci’s _Lady with an Ermine_ and artful pictures of architecture. Furniture look like antiques and remind Brock more of a gallery display than a living space. He doesn’t know an awful lot about Rollins, but his house tells him two things. One, he’s not exactly neat. Two, he likes pretty things.

Brock touches a mounted owl, his fingertips running along her feathers. He senses Rollins’ presence behind, smells his rich cologne.

“Real?” he asks, staring into the owl’s dead glassy eyes.

Rollins rests his hands on Brock’s hips, leans in to tease his neck with his lips. He doesn’t respond. They didn’t come here to talk.

 

\--

 

There are more sculptures in the bedroom. The mounted wild cat Brock doesn’t know the name of serves well as a shirt hanger.

 

\--

 

“You’re so beautiful,” Rollins whispers wide-eyed as he’s buried deep inside Brock.

Brock smiles and closes his eyes. Yes, Jack certainly likes pretty things.

 

\--

 

Brock tells himself it was a one-time thing, and one time too many. He doesn’t sleep with his subordinates, and he certainly doesn’t want to make a habit out of it.

It doesn’t end up being a one-time thing.

At first he tells himself it’s because he spends more time at Jack’s – he prefers his beautiful house to his own stuffy apartment he shares with Westfahl. Jack has good whisky, and a comfortable bed, so it’s not difficult to coax Brock into staying the night.

But if he’s honest with himself, it’s not the whisky nor the bed. It’s the way Jack looks at him, like Brock is his most prized possession. It sends Brock’s blood rushing, just like when he’s fighting, or under fire, or running away from an explosion. It’s unsettling. Exhilarating. Addictive.

And it helps Jack’s easy on the eyes, too.

 

\--

 

One room is always locked. Brock asks Jack about it once.

“Renovations,” Jack says with a shrug.

 

\--

 

Jack spends a lot of time in the locked room. He usually walks out of it when Brock comes, and sometimes, when Brock looks through the window on his way to his car after he leaves, he sees Jack enter it.

It doesn’t look like he’s renovating anything.

Brock tries not to think too much about it. It’s nothing weird, and not that important.

 

\--

 

Sometimes, Brock wonders who Jack even is. Why Pierce put a guy who wasn’t SHIELD on STRIKE.

He wonders where Jack got all his money from. He wonders if the “reproductions” of his paintings aren’t, in fact, the real thing. He wonders what’s he doing when Brock isn’t there for him to stare at.

He wonders if Jack really means it when he tells Brock he loves him. He wonders if he feels the same.

Perhaps all Jack loves is Brock’s body.

Perhaps all Brock loves is the mystery, and not the man that hides behind it.

 

\--

 

Brock arrives a little early, but the front door is open, so he enters Jack’s house. He calls his name, but doesn’t receive an answer. There’s an empty glass and an open bottle of Glenfiddich on the dining table, so he helps himself. He’s about to drop on the chair and wait for Jack to emerge from wherever he’s hiding, when his eyes land on the door to the locked room and he stops in his tracks. It’s ajar.

Brock sets the glass back on the table. He’ll just take a peek. There’s probably nothing to look at, anyway, if the room’s being renovated.

The room certainly isn’t being renovated. The walls are painted light orange, the floor is carpeted. It’s filled with fashionably dressed mannequins.

Intrigued, Brock walks in. He approaches one of the mannequins, a realistic looking woman with long, curly hair in an haute couture dress. He smiles in amusement as he touches the delicate dark red fabric. Does Jack lock this room from him because he’s ashamed of being into fashion? Fashion makes sense for him – clothes can be beautiful just like any other form of art.

He looks up at the ornamented corset, and then higher, at the mannequin’s unusually pretty face. Glassy blue eyes stare back at him. Brock’s skin crawls.

It’s not a mannequin.

He throws a feverish look around, wide-eyed, before slowly retreating.

Those are not mannequins.

He’s not running. His muscles feel oddly stiff as he makes his way through the corridor. His heart thumps hard against his chest, his mind feels blank.

He almost reaches the door when it opens and Jack walks in. Brock halts. Jack studies him. Surprise and then understanding cross his face.

Brock often finds himself in terrifying, dangerous situations. It’s his job. But never before has he been so paralyzed with fear.

When Jack advances on him, his jaw set, the only thing Brock can do is to back away until he hits a wall and there’s nowhere to run. He tries to fight, but his limbs are heavy, his reactions slow. Jack has no trouble to grab him by the neck and bash his head against the wall until he blacks out.

 

\--

 

When he wakes, he’s surprised he’s still alive. His head’s pounding, and the smell of antiseptic that fills his nose isn’t helping. Neither is the bright light that hurts his eyes when he cracks them open.

“Oops,” he hears Jack’s quiet voice. “You weren’t supposed to wake up.”

He tilts the lamp above Brock’s head, so it doesn’t shine directly onto his face. Even before the dark spots in his vision fade, Brock knows he’s strapped to something similar to an operating table. The sight of Jack wearing a surgical gown and an apron confirms that.

“It’s okay.” Jack’s gloved hand caresses Brock’s cheek. “It’ll be more fun that way.”

He’s holding a scalpel in his other hand. Brock becomes aware of his bare skin, cold from the antiseptic. His thoughts are running.

“I won’t tell anybody,” he blurts out, his voice high and trembling. It feels like it’s somebody else talking. “You don’t have to do this. I’m not gonna tell anybody a thing.”

Note to self: never trust a guy with a love for taxidermy again.

Jack smiles at him brightly and for a moment Brock believes it’s gonna be okay. That Jack will listen and let him go.

He said he loved him, didn’t he?

“That’s lovely, but I’m afraid I still have to do this.” Jack’s hand cups the side of Brock’s face, his fingers brush his hair back.

“Why?” Brock’s voice is barely a whisper. He tests the straps bounding him, but even before he does, he knows he’s not strong enough to escape. His body feels weak from shock.

“Because you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Jack lets go of his face and looks down on his chest, his eyes turning cold and calculating. Brock’s heart leaps, like it knows it’ll be forced to stop in a matter of minutes.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Brock says in that weird high voice. “You want to keep me, fine. I’ll move in even. You’ll have me. How does that sound?”

Brock’s body jolts when Jack presses the scalpel between his pecs. He wasn’t given any anesthesia. His eyes shut close on their own accord.

“Come on, Jack. I bet this scalpel leaves really ugly scars, huh? Let’s not do this. Let’s just… talk about this, okay? I’m sure we can reach a compromise we both like.”

His whole body is shaking by the time he finishes talking. He thinks about his team, how unimpressed they’d be with him if they saw him. It’s not like he can control his reactions though. Right now, he’s not in control of anything.

Jack’s hand is in his hair again, his fingertips massaging his scalp, trying to soothe him.

“You’re right. The scars aren’t that pretty,” he says, and Brock opens his eyes again. “But you know what else makes you ugly? Aging. And that can’t be hidden as easily. The older you are the less beautiful you become, and I’m afraid I can’t wait any longer, dear.”

Brock folds his sweaty hands into fists. Tears build behind his eyelids.

“Aw, don’t make that face.” Jack offers him a smile, but there’s nothing consoling in it. Nothing sane, either. “You’re gonna be the best piece of my collection.”

“You’re mad,” Brock whispers, turning his head away.

“I’m mad about your beauty. Hell, Brock, I might even get rid of all the others, they all pale in comparison.”

Brock shouts and struggles against the straps in a last desperate attempt to save himself. Tears are running down his face when he slumps back on the stretcher, but he doesn’t even care at this point.

“I thought you loved me,” he says, facing away from Jack.

“I do love you.” And if he wasn’t about to gut him alive, the sound of his voice would make Brock believe him.

“Then don’t kill me.”

“I’m not gonna _kill_ you, sweetheart. I’m gonna _immortalize_ you.”

The scalpel drives into Brock’s body, and he screams so loud, somebody has to hear him. Somebody has to barge in. Somebody _has to_ save him.

The scalpel cuts him in half, the pain blinds him and any coherent thought is gone.

 

\--

 

Jack smooths out the fabric on Brock’s chest. He touches the soft skin of his cheek, adjusts his flossy hair.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs.

Brock stares back with dead eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to request a fic, drop me an ask on [tumblr](https://quillofchoice.tumblr.com/ask)!


	3. Ancient Greece AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you want to know why I’m so good?”
> 
> Iason looks up at Bion, whose hands and face are covered in blood, none of it his own. He must be under a wrong impression Iason was watching him spar. Maybe he looked once or twice. It’s not like there’s anything else around to look at.
> 
> “I like my face.” Bion grins like he just said something funny but he’s completely serious, unfortunately. “Don’t want it swollen and blue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by "300: The Rise of an Empire" ;)
> 
> The names are actual Ancient Greek and the closest counterparts to Brock and Jack I could find. Maybe I shoud’ve named them Brokyllas and Jakos instead.
> 
> (No. No, I shouldn’t have.)

“Do you want to know why I’m so good?”

Iason looks up at Bion, whose hands and face are covered in blood, none of it his own. He must be under a wrong impression Iason was watching him spar. Maybe he looked once or twice. It’s not like there’s anything else around to look at.

“I like my face.” Bion grins like he just said something funny but he’s completely serious, unfortunately. “Don’t want it swollen and blue.”

Bion’s grin fades when Iason doesn’t speak up. He likes being a center of attention, that much is apparent, and doesn’t like being ignored. Iason isn’t ignoring him, not really, Bion has his full attention, but lack of reaction visibly upsets him.

“Same can’t be said about you.” Bion takes in Iason’s scarred face. “Are you even any good?”

Iason knows Bion’s trying to get a raise out of him, but it’s also a challenge. He remains silent.

Bion fidgets and tries to mask it, the expression on his face one of uncertainty; he starts wondering if he’s dealing with an idiot, and that Iason can’t have.

“Have you heard about Nárkissos?” he asks finally.

Bion scoffs because of course he has, everyone has. He walks away, muttering something about not having time for staring in pools.

 

\--

 

Bion doesn’t expect Iason to approach him when they celebrate a winning battle, so he’s a little wary. Everyone’s drunk on wine by now. Karpos insulted Isidoros’ wife not a moment ago, and they’re fighting on the ground, spitting obscenities. Bion should break them up, because they’re an embarrassment to his people, but he doesn’t feel like it.

Still on the edge from the fight, he doesn’t know what to think when Iason reaches out to him; it doesn’t look like an attack, but he dodges his hand anyway and strikes back, pushing Iason away from the crowd. They fight for a moment, shoving each other, until Iason sends Bion on the ground. He straddles him and pins down his wrists with one hand, the other grabbing onto his hair to keep his head in place as he leans down and catches his lips in a bruising kiss. Bion is surprised to taste wine on Iason’s tongue, and before he fully catches on, it’s over. Iason grins down on him.

“Know what?” he mutters. “I like your face, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nárkissos - AKA Narcissus, a man who fell in love with his own reflection what led to his untimely death.


End file.
